


Gingerbread

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Christmas, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-23
Updated: 1999-12-23
Packaged: 2018-11-10 15:57:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11130030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Someone's making Gingerbread





	Gingerbread

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).
    
    
    Gingerbread
    By Courser
    Rating:  G
    Spoilers: None
    Pairings: None
    Summary:  Um, someone's making gingerbread
    Disclaimer:  Don't own 'em, never will.  If I did, well, now that would
    be a different story, now wouldn't it.... 
    
    +++++
    
    He'd carefully calibrated the fussy old gas oven and assembled the ingredients
    on the counter before him.  The cookie sheets were bent and scorched,
    but resurrected by a fresh sheet aluminum foil and judicious use of a
    hammer.  He'd reviewed the recipe several times and was sure he understood
    the basics.  He could do this, he'd been watching it done since he was
    a child.  And it was for children that he did this now.  All right, time
    to begin.  
    
    Oversized dishtowel tied around his waist, he measured and combined and
    stirred.  His companion watched solemnly from a safe distance as consistency
    and moisture content were evaluated and adjusted.  When perfection was
    reached, the dough was turned out onto the countertop and rolled out
    with a convenient can of spaghetti sauce, leaving an interesting pattern
    of indentations.  The man frowned.  Poked at the grooves with his fingers,
    then rolled some more.  When the proper thickness was achieved, he reached
    for a flimsy metal silhouette.  Pressed it into the dough.  And again,
    and again.  Repeated until there was no room for more.  He gathered up
    the selvage and transferred the shapes to a cookie sheet, then rolled
    out more dough again.  This time he made the cuts with a different shape.
    The process was repeated until no more shapes could be made.  Phase one
    was complete.  
    
    Tiny silver beads, made of sugar, became eyes and buttons, each one pressed
    precisely into the dough.  Using a drinking straw, a hole was made at
    the top of one type of figure, and in the middle of the other type. 
    Looking over his handiwork, he slid the a tray into the oven, then removed
    his wristwatch, propping it on the counter so he could watch the time.
    When the precise shade of golden brown had been achieved, he noted the
    time, removed the tray and replaced it with another.  While waiting for
    the next batch to bake, he prepared a thick paste of sugar, milk, vanilla
    and butter.  Separating the paste into several batches, he tinted them
    red, green, and the third he left unchanged.  Consulting his watch, he
    exchanged trays again and again until all the figures were done. 
    
    Taking his project to the card table in what served as a dining area,
    he began Phase 3.  One figure slipped off the table and fell to the floor,
    breaking into pieces.  
    
    "Oh, dear." He bent and picked up the broken bits, relieved that he'd
    had the foresight to plan for such mishaps. 
    
    No sense in the sweet going to waste, he thought as he popped a piece
    into his mouth.  Perfection.  Just the right combination of crisp, sweet
    and crumbly.  He smiled to himself and then at his companion, now sitting
    expectantly nearby.   
    
    "Oh, all right.  Here," he shared his treat with his friend, who gobbled
    up his pieces quickly. 
    
    He spooned the colored icings into waxed paper cones and snipped off
    the tips.  Each gingerbread person was decorated with care, each one
    different from the others, then set aside, making room for the next.
    After the people were done, he moved on to the gingerbread wolves.  Well,
    they weren't actually wolves, exactly, more like coyotes, heads thrown
    back howling, but close enough for the purpose at hand.  At this point,
    he occasionally conferred with his companion on his choices.  They weren't
    always in complete agreement. 
    
    "I can't see how that makes any difference, you can't see color anyway."
    The man finally said and settled the argument.  
    
    His companion had no appreciation of the more subtle aspects of surrealism.
    He shrugged and finished piping icing onto the last few wolves.  That
    phase completed, it was now time for the fourth and final part.  Consulting
    the clock, he was dismayed to discover that most of his day had been
    spent on this project.  He hadn't remembered how time consuming it had
    been.  Or tedious, if he were honest with himself.  By the time he'd
    finished with the last of the gingerbread people and wolves, his imagination
    had been taxed to its limit and he'd had to use variants on designs he'd
    already employed.  
    
    The only thing left to do was to thread ribbon through the holes and
    knot it.  Each gingerbread person and wolf would be ready to decorate
    a Christmas tree.  His blunt fingers were fatigued and sore by the time
    he'd finished.  Apparently a child's small fingers were much better suited
    to the fine work.  Or a woman's he reminded himself.  
    
    Finally finished, he stood up and examined his handiwork.  All in all
    a very passable job. When he'd offered to bring cookies to the Christmas
    party at the 27th Precinct he was quite sure that this wasn't what they
    had in mind.  This year, the Precinct had sponsored an orphanage and
    was providing the Christmas party and gifts for the children.  His gift,
    White Fang by Jack London already sat wrapped by the door.   He'd loved
    Jack London as a boy and hoped it would captivate another child with
    its exotic locales and characters.  The sisters had assured him that
    it would, though they were generally grateful for almost any contribution
    and he hoped they hadn't been dissembling.  
    
    Retrieving his watch from the kitchen counter, he was again dismayed
    by the time.  If he didn't hurry, he wouldn't be ready when Ray came
    to pick him up.  He packed the cookies into a large box he'd secured
    for the purpose, then rolled down his sleeves, tied his tie and removed
    his makeshift apron, inspecting himself for any spots.  Finally he put
    on his brown serge coat and buckled his Sam Browne.  Settling his Stetson
    squarely on his head, he balanced box and book, and gave his companion
    a meaningful look. The look was returned, but said companion made no
    move to join him.  
    
    "What's the matter, now?" the man asked in a slightly irritated tone.
    
    His friend gave a soft whimper and stared at him with sad eyes.  After
    all, it was Christmas.  
    
    "Oh, all right, if you insist," the man capitulated and setting down
    his burdens, extracted one gingerbread person and one gingerbread wolf
    from the box. 
    
    "How about these?" displaying his choices and was rewarded with a joyful
    yip. 
    
    He hung the edible ornaments on their small christmas tree, while his
    companion watched approvingly 
    
    "All right then, are you ready?" the man inquired, picking up his parcels
    again.  
    
    Diefenbaker trotted happily out the door and waited at the top of the
    stairs.  Fraser soon followed, their timing ideal.   A bottle-green Buick
    Riviera was pulling up to the curb as they stepped out the door.  The
    rich spice scent of the cookies contrasted sharply with the cold winter
    smells of Chicago.  While it wasn't as open or even as cold as his home,
    the smell of cinnamon and ginger on the winter air always felt like Christmas...and
    friends. 
    
    The End
    


End file.
